


It's the People That You Hate Together That Make Marriage a Joy

by katiemariie



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Academia, Humor, M/M, Married Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 09:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9315401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiemariie/pseuds/katiemariie
Summary: After being slighted at a dinner party, Holt and Kevin have no choice but to seek revenge. Which, in this case, involves binge-watching SpongeBob SquarePants.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dungeonmarm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dungeonmarm/gifts).



“Well, it was lovely seeing you again, Vernon. Drive safely.” Their final, lingering guest pushed out of the house, Kevin closes the front door and turns to Raymond. “I don’t know what was the bigger lie: my feigned joy at seeing him or my wish that he return home in one piece.”

Raymond swirls the remaining merlot in his glass. “What a despicable man.” The faintest hint of a growl colors his voice. “I hope he drives carelessly tonight.”

“Raymond,” Kevin gasps. Which is to say he inhales only a fraction of a decibel louder than usual which is not very loud indeed.

“It’s true,” Raymond continues. “I hope he’s pulled over for a minor traffic offense, which after a few other similar incidents over the course of the next year, will force him to spend the weekend in comedy traffic school.”

“Those are strong words, Raymond.”

“And I meant every one of them.” Raymond tilts his glass and takes a larger than usual sip, recklessly wasting the wine’s magnificent bouquet.

“Well, he does deserve it,” Kevin says. “Anyone so enamored with ‘low culture’ should be consigned to a weekend of subpar, traffic-based comedy.” He picks up his glass from the side table. “I remain utterly taken aback that a man—even a man from NYU—would have the temerity to come into our home, sit around our table, and monopolize the conversation with statements not only vile but patently false.”

In a coup of an impersonation (i.e., one only noticeable to Kevin), Raymond puts on the twang developed by those who spend too much time in Bobst Library: “‘By restricting one’s archive to the fine arts and canonical literature, one really does run the risk of perpetuating the artificial divide between high and low art, and all the hegemonic systems that divide supports. That’s why I left Classics and started applying Derrida to _SpongeBob SquarePants_.’” Returning to his normal speaking voice (again, not that much of an adjustment to make), Raymond says, “The cretin.”

“The worst part is that we can’t even call him a cretin,” Kevin replies.

“Of course. Because then he would accuse us of being high culture snobs and oppressing a dish sponge who lives in some kind of tropical fruit at the ocean floor.”

“Yet we cannot allow this slight to remain unanswered.” Setting down his glass, Kevin pulls the leash and harness from its hook by the door. “Cheddar. Time for walkies.”

“Of course.” Raymond side steps a very enthusiastic Corgi on his way to the door. “But how?”

-

Raymond finishes reading aloud Vernon’s newest article just as they reach their front door: “Halberstam comma Jack. Open italics. The Queer Art of Failure. Close italics. Duke University Press comma 2011.” 

Raymond clicks off his phone and jams it into his pants pocket with a bit more force than strictly necessary (but still not so much force as to be noticed by anyone but Kevin… and possibly Cheddar).

“What did you think?” Raymond asks. “Was it as awful hearing it as it was saying it?”

Kevin pauses to consider the question (and deposit a bag of Cheddar’s excrement in the bin). “The premise is sound. But without knowledge of his archive, I’m afraid I can’t make a proper assessment of the article’s merit.” His shoulders droop—that is, lower by half a centimeter. “I think the man from NYU may have won this round, Raymond.”

Raymond narrows his eyes—that is, closes them about a quarter of a millimeter. “I wouldn’t be so hasty.”

-

“Captain.” Amy snaps again before turning to Jake. “It’s not working. Should we call someone?”

“What? No.” Jake scoffs. “It’s not like he’s having a seizure. He just stopped talking in the middle of a sentence and is now staring motionless into the distance.”

“Jake, that’s exactly what an absence seizure looks like.”

“Oh my god.” Jake grabs Holt by the shoulders and shakes him like a polaroid picture. “Captain Holt! Captain! Captain!”

Holt’s hands shoot up, locking around Jake’s biceps. Staring into his eyes with laser-like intensity, Holt snarls, “Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?”

Reflexively, Jake sing-songs, “SpongeBob SquarePants!”

“But does he, Peralta?” Holt emphasizes this with a shake of Jake’s shoulders. “Can a person who spends most of their waking hours laboring for the benefit of another truly be said to be living? By extension, can any of us say we are living? True, we find fulfillment in our careers but so does SpongeBob. From a certain perspective, the joy our work gives us may appear just as hollow and unwarranted as the happiness SpongeBob finds at the Krusty Krab. Are we denying ourselves a full life by seeking a coherent identity under late capitalism?” He looks at Jake expectantly.

“My god,” Jake gasps, turning to Amy. “He’s speaking gibberish. This is definitely a seizure!”

“No,” Amy says solemnly. “I think I know what this is.” She steps forward, maneuvering herself into Holt’s field of vision. “Captain, did you binge-watch _SpongeBob SquarePants_ this weekend?”

Holt snaps out of his trance, letting go of Jake’s arms and turning to Amy. “How did you know?”

“I’ve been here before.”

“You have?”

“Last year, Jake told me his family celebrates Rosh Hashanah by eating caramel apples while marathoning the entire _Die Hard_ franchise and then rewatching the first one twice as a palate cleanser.”

“And you believed that?” Holt asks.

Amy nods. “It seemed wrong to question him.”

“To be fair,” Jake interjects, “that’s how _I_ celebrate Rosh Hashanah and I am a member of my family.”

“Anyway,” Amy continues, “I know what you’re going through. Fortunately, binge-watch hangovers only last a couple weeks.”

Holt shakes his head slowly, gravely. “Perhaps in general, but this time… That sponge has shaken the very core of my existence. If such profound questions and fundamental truths can be found in a children’s cartoon then what have I been doing with my life? For decades, I’ve refused to take in a ballet outside of Russia due to George Balanchine's perverting influence on the rest of the ballet world. I’ve ignored vast swaths of arts and culture and yet somehow had the gall to consider myself an expert on the human condition.”

“Didja now?” Jake asks, his face screwing up in a disbelieving smirk.

“Oh, yes. I’ve always prided myself on my faultless barometer for gauging human behavior: parsing social cues, deciphering nonverbal communication, modulating my tone of voice to convey variable and often subtle meaning. For example, right now my tone is sarcastic and slightly irritated.”

“And a little hungry,” Amy adds.

“Very good, Santiago.”

Amy beams. “Thank you, sir.”

“Sorry to break up the moment,” Jake starts, “but why were you even watching _SpongeBob_?”

“Kevin and I had a dinner party Friday night, and some yokel from NYU dared to question Kevin’s academic integrity and cast aspersions on our lifestyle,” Holt says.

“And by ‘lifestyle,’ you mean…” Jake says expectantly.

“Our patronage of the fine arts.”

“Well, I am glad I clarified that before sending my buddy in the Village to tow that dude’s car.” Jake catches himself. “Not that that’s something I do to people I don’t like because that would be unprofessional and unethical and a total abuse of power,” he says, breathlessly transitioning to: “So, hey, why _SpongeBob_?”

“Our ignoble guest used _SpongeBob_ against us, so we used it against him,” Holt says.

“So you watched the entire series in two days? It’s been on for like a decade.”

“Drastic, I know,” Holt concedes. “But it was the only way to restore respectability to our house and, more importantly, Kevin’s livelihood.” Holt leans forward in his chair, pride clear on his face. “As we speak, Kevin is drafting an article that will call Vernon’s entire career into question.”

“I’d love to read it,” Amy says. 

“Same. I grew up with Gina, so I loves the drama,” Jake says. “Let us know it when it comes out.”

“Oh,” Holt chuckles. “This article will send shock waves through the foundation of Western academia. I doubt you’ll need me telling you when it’s published.”

Jake nods. “Or, you know, email’s good.”

-

**Three years later…**

“This has to be my favorite line.” Lying in bed, Raymond looks through his reading glasses at the article on his phone. “‘While proponents of the low theory turn champion taking popular media seriously, the numerous factual errors about their pop culture archives included in their publications prove that low theorists are not taking popular media as seriously they would high culture texts. Vernon Horthgarde has earned a well-deserved reputation for meticulous translations and analysis of Hellenistic theatre. Yet his recent work on SpongeBob SquarePants contains numerous factual errors regarding the series. In one example (see appendix for a full listing), Horthgarde argues that Mr. Krabs represents the inherently (and often willfully) limited perspective of American political leaders who inherited their wealth. However, as the fifth season episode “Friend or Foe” shows, Mr. Krabs grew up in poverty and attained his current socioeconomic status through entrepreneurship. Rather than the old-monied elite, Mr. Krabs could be said to represent the fragility of class alliances under late capitalism.’” 

Raymond lowers his phone, stating flatly, “Zing.”

Kevin snuggles closer, rubbing shoulders with his husband. “I’m pleased you like it. After all, you are my harshest critic.”

Raymond entwines their fingers under the covers. “If you win the Carrington Award this year, it will be because of this article. And not the fact that you are a white man in a chauvinistic field dominated by whiteness in a country increasingly open in its racism and sexism.”

“Why, Raymond.” Freeing his hand, Kevin rolls onto his side—practically on top of Raymond. “That may be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Raymond cups his cheek. “And I meant it.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you.” Kevin runs his hand along Raymond’s chest. “Thank you.”

He leans down and they kiss with enough vigor and passion that Cheddar gets off the bed without needing to be told.

Yet Kevin pulls away at a crucial moment. “Wait.”

“What’s wrong?” Raymond asks, his voice husky with love (so not really much deeper than usual).

Kevin’s lips quirk into a mischievous smile. “There’s a new episode of _SpongeBob_ on the DVR.”

“Put it on,” Raymond purrs. “I mean, we will obviously need to rewatch it later but having the episode on right now would add a certain element.”

“Agreed.”


End file.
